The Book of Second Chances

by Katherine Slee

  The room fell silent as Emily pulled the answerphone’s plug from its socket, then threw it to the floor, where it landed on the carpet with a soft thud. She looked down at the letters clasped tightly in her hand before walking into the living room and over to the fireplace, where she tossed them all into the grate. Next, she went back out to the hall to retrieve a large cardboard box by the front door, taking it back to the fireplace and opening the lid. Inside were hundreds of fan letters, most of them unopened.

  I don’t want your pity, Emily thought as she began to take them out and stack them in four neat piles by the fire.

  Emily had never before wanted to run away, had in fact done everything she possibly could to stay within the safe confines of Wells-next-the-Sea, a happy little town on the Norfolk coast where life moved at a suitably slow pace and the wider world largely left her alone. That was, until her grandmother had given that interview, telling the world and everyone in it that there was, quite possibly, another manuscript ready and waiting for all to discover. There had been such an incredible frenzy after the article was published, with phone calls and emails and strangers turning up at the door, thrusting phones in Emily’s face and asking her if it was true. The kind of chaos Emily had been sheltered from when her grandmother was alive. But she didn’t have any answers, neither then nor now, because she hadn’t asked her grandmother about the unfinished story. It was beginning to feel as if she had never asked her anything of importance, and now it was too late.

  On the opposite wall to all those notebooks hung a small, square picture of two bluebirds. It was so very different in style to all the other paintings in the house, but Emily had never asked where it came from, or why it was right next to the space where her grandmother always worked. It was just one example of how Emily had simply assumed, in that slightly arrogant way of a child, that adults had no real past before their children were born. Now, more than anything, she wanted to be able to talk to her grandmother, to discover everything that had happened before.

  Emily went over to the mantelpiece, looking at each of the photographs stood on top. She wished she could go back, find at least one answer to all her questions.

  For years, Emily had allowed her life to be decided for her, first by a long series of doctors and then her grandmother. It was always Catriona to whom she had turned whenever she was in need, relied on to make all the decisions, allowed to take responsibility for pretty much every aspect of her life. It wasn’t until Catriona had decided to forgo further treatment that Emily was forced to acknowledge how isolated, how dependent on her grandmother, she had become.

  Emily looked across at the piles of letters she had created, thought of what would happen to all those words if she were to set them alight. Imagined them dancing up the chimney and into the sky, where they would mix together and perhaps create something new, or get caught in the beak of a passing cockatoo who would fly across the ocean and deliver them to a boy who dreamt of one day growing up to be a famous author.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Emily sighed as she sank to her knees and looked across at her grandmother’s desk, where an ancient typewriter had sat, untouched for months. Twenty-eight years old with nothing to show for her life other than a shelf full of books. What was she, who was she, without the late, great Catriona Robinson?

  2

  ROBIN

  Erithacus rubecula

  Mr. Thomas could see someone moving around inside the house as he approached. The outline of a person who dipped and turned beyond the window. The house itself was tucked away at the end of a long gravel path next to the church. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sign for Meadows Cottage written in the same hand as that on the envelope he’d been instructed to deliver by the woman whose absence he felt each morning when he woke.

  It was his dog Max who’d first brought them together, just shy of one year ago. Max was running in circles around a pile of belongings, tail thumping in contentment as his bark resonated through the morning air. There had ensued a momentary tug of war as he’d retrieved one end of a belt from Max’s jaws, then he’d crouched down to discover a small gold ring half buried in the sand beside a pile of clothes now wrinkled through with sandy paw prints. He had turned full circle in search of another person, and found a woman jogging toward him, breathless but smiling, with hair slapped in sodden streaks over her face. She was wearing nothing more than a silk slip, soaked through by her swim in the sea. She’d apologized for the confusion, laughing about how it must have seemed to a man who was simply walking his dog and discovered a pile of abandoned belongings.

  She had introduced herself as Catriona, her hand small and chilled inside his own. A hand he would go on to hold many times as the two of them walked Max each morning, before she returned home to the granddaughter he’d never had the chance to meet, until now.

  Part of him wanted to walk away, to continue with his morning as planned—a stroll across the beach, followed by a strong, black coffee, croissant, and newspaper at the nearby café, then home to continue work on the raised beds in the back garden.

  But another part of him knew it was folly to ignore a dying woman’s wishes. A woman who had chosen him because he understood that Emily’s world was about to be turned upside down.

  Max nudged his master’s leg, pulling him back to the here and now. The garden was still: petals sleepy under the advancing sun; bees going in search of a late breakfast; a robin perched atop the handle of a garden fork, with a worm held tight in its beak.

  The dog barked, and the bird took flight as the front door opened. A young woman dressed in a pale green T-shirt and denim shorts appeared in the doorway. Her skin held the beginnings of a tan, all except for a large stretch of scar along her jaw. Standing barefoot, the nails of each toe painted a glossy red, she watched Mr. Thomas from under a heavy fringe that stopped just shy of her hazel eyes.

  There was something unsettling about her gaze, Mr. Thomas thought. The way it drew him in to look at her a moment more, to recognize the curve of lip so like her grandmother’s, and the freckles across her nose.

  “Are you Emily?” he asked.

  A single nod of reply as she bent down to rub behind the dog’s ears, a smile that broke through the scar when she was rewarded with a lick.

  “I have something for you,” he said as he held out the envelope he’d kept safe for six long weeks. “It’s from your grandmother.”

  She considered the offering a moment before taking it, then turned to walk back inside, a small wave of her hand inviting him to follow.

  The dog pulled free of its lead, trotting behind the woman who disappeared into a room at the rear. Inside, the cottage was cool, its stone walls clinging to the remnants of night, with a small living room to the left and a narrow staircase straight ahead. A cuckoo clock ticked away in the corner, and he was forced to duck his head to avoid a beam as he passed through to the kitchen. The scent of toast and coffee drew his eye to a table by the back door, where an empty plate and cup sat next to a sketchbook open to a blank page.

  Emily stood by the butler’s sink and he watched as she turned the envelope over in her hand, looking at it from one side then the other. She held it up to the light, then tossed it in the sink, where it landed atop a slowly disintegrating tower of bubbles, dark tendrils of ink beginning to soak through the paper.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, with fumbling fingers that betrayed his exterior of calm. “There’s also this.” Out of his pocket came a fountain pen, with bottle-green marbling and gold lid. Emily took the pen, held it in her palm, then suddenly cried out, bashed her fist against the porcelain and slipped down to the floor.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, rushing to her side, only for her to dip her head, try to hide her tears. “I’m so sorry,” he continued, reaching out a hand, then bringing it away. “Do you know what this means?” Catriona hadn’t told him. Asked him only to deliver the letter and pen.

  Emily nodded, then shook her head, a low moan escaping her lips. Max ca
me over and laid a paw on her leg. The dog seemed to understand her pain, emitting a soft whine as she wrapped an arm around his neck and buried her face in his fur.

  “Is there anyone who can help?” Mr. Thomas asked, looking around the kitchen for some kind of sign of what he was supposed to do. His eyes skimmed over the obvious, the everyday items so commonplace to all. A laptop, a coffee machine, a collection of keys hanging from a row of hooks on the wall, two pairs of Wellington boots stood side by side by the back door. A framed cover of a children’s book, written by one of England’s best-loved authors.

  Emily still sat on the floor, one hand absently stroking Max’s ears, the other turning the pen over and over.

  All of a sudden, he felt the full weight of his intrusion, of witnessing something he should not, and it made him agitated, annoyed at his decision to come here, to play the hand of fate when it really was none of his concern.

  “I really am so very sorry,” he muttered as he took hold of Max’s collar and lifted him away from the woman. “Please accept my apologies for barging in on you like this. It wasn’t my intention to cause you any distress, only I made your grandmother a promise and, well, it’s not something I felt I could ignore.” He was rambling, a nervous habit of his, all the more obvious in a room so silent, apart from the tick of a clock and the click of Max’s claws on the floor as they left.

  She gave him no more than a cursory glance as he left, and it wasn’t until he closed the door behind him that he realized, for all his blathering, for the shock of what he had passed on, she hadn’t said a single word the entire time he was there.

  3

  MAGPIE

  Pica pica

  The man was gone. The dog too. It made Emily feel sad and relieved all at once. To have someone give her a message from the grave was so very typical of her grandmother. Planning it all down to the person who would deliver the news, with a dog no less, as if that might somehow soften the blow.

  She picked up her cup, around the rim of which were tiny paintings of turtledoves, and poured herself another coffee. She cradled the warmth in her palms and tapped her pen against the side, tried to think when her grandmother could have taken it. Perhaps she had hidden it away in the pocket of her cardigan, or inside a packet of tobacco, knowing it was somewhere Emily would never look. Emily had searched all over for the pen, tossing cushions aside, even removing books from the shelves in the study and going into the greenhouse to see if it had mysteriously ended up next to the tomatoes.

  “Look for the signs,” her grandmother would always say. “Don’t forget to look for all the clues and miracles tucked away in every corner of the world.”

  But what sort of clue was this? Emily unscrewed the lid, raised the nib to her nose and breathed deep. It always made her think of the tube of Germoline, all pink and sticky, sitting at the back of the cabinet above the bathroom sink. A leftover cream from childhood with such a distinct smell. The pen had been a present from her grandmother, something to help Emily have confidence in herself, her drawings. She told her she shouldn’t ever think of rubbing something away, that all the images she created were there for a reason and she should treasure them all. Ever since, Emily always sketched in black ink, never pencil.

  A long sigh, because all of the memories only served to remind Emily that she was alone. She closed her eyes, tried to remember the look on her grandmother’s face the last evening she had been alive, tried to recall the exact words spoken before she had kissed her good night and Emily had turned back to her work, away from the sound of footsteps on the narrow stairs. The creak of floorboards overhead as the old woman settled down to sleep.

  Emily blew into her cup, let the steam rise and cover her face. Felt tears on her cheeks, grief tangled up with anger at being left all alone.

  There was a sudden cackle of magpie, and Emily opened her eyes, sought out the culprit that sat in the apple tree at the edge of the lawn. Two sharp whistles and the bird swooped down from the branch, hopping across the grass, then in through the door and up onto the kitchen table.

  “Hello, Milton,” Emily said in a small whisper.

  The bird pecked at the toast crumbs on offer, then went over to tap at a biscuit tin placed high on a nearby shelf. Emily reached up to bring the bird back down, leant in close to whisper a reprimand, which made Milton cock his head in response.

  Two black eyes regarded her for a moment, then he leapt over to the sink. Head down, tail up, the magpie went, its beak investigating a saturated envelope that Emily snatched away and dropped on the table.

  “No,” Emily whispered, a slam of cup on wood before she stormed out to the garden.

  She couldn’t look at it. Certainly couldn’t open it, or read her grandmother’s final words. Because that would make it real, make this more than just a passing distraction from the monotony of life. Make her grandmother’s threats and promises come true: that one day soon Emily would be on her own.

  If she read the letter, she had the strangest feeling that everything would change, and she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

  Toes on grass, curling through the damp to feel the earth below and the tiny stems of daisies scattered all around. Daisies she used to make into chains, then drape over the outstretched branches of all the trees that ran around the garden’s perimeter. A shield to stop the outside world from looking in.

  Always looking, always staring. Always wanting to know about the famous author and, perhaps even more so, about the silent child.

  Emily leant against the rough trunk of the apple tree, looked down to where Milton was waiting at her feet. He had been joined by a robin, who sang out his greeting, then fluttered up to land close to her ear.

  A soft breeze stirred the feathers at his breast, bringing with it the scent of honeysuckle and spun sugar from the vicarage next door. The vicar had a notoriously sweet tooth, and Emily would sometimes sit with him as he wrote his sermons, accompanied by a plate of biscuits or Danish pastries that his wife would bake. Perhaps she could pop in, let him read the letter instead?

  No matter who read it, she would need to admit that her grandmother and her legacy were gone.

  But admitting was impossible. Admitting would make it true.

  Her throat began to close as the truth settled in her heart, and she let out a low sob that pierced the garden’s calm.

  Milton shook his head, then scuttled back across the lawn. The robin sang out his own note of remorse, and Emily imagined a chorus of birds landing in the apple trees at the back of the garden, a mismatched group of magpies and wrens, crows that perched up high, and swallows that dipped and turned through the brightening sky.

  She knew she was doing it again—escaping inside her own imagination, never allowing herself to acknowledge the reality of what she had lost. Because she had lost so much and she didn’t want to have to start again.

  Emily took a long, slow breath, wiped her eyes, and went back to the kitchen, where Milton was pecking at the last remaining crumbs on the breakfast table, her grandmother’s letter unopened by his feet.

  “Okay,” she sighed as she slipped her finger through the seal. Out came a single sheet of paper embossed with her grandmother’s neat, black script: no more, no less. Just a few letters on a page. Was it some sort of breadcrumb trail she was expected to follow?

  Emily tore the paper into ever smaller pieces, as one by one they fell to the ground, and she scuffed them away with her feet, wanted them gone.

  She had no need to keep the piece of paper intact to find the source—Emily knew the address by heart. It was what was waiting for her there that made her hesitate, made her look to the table, where her sketchbook lay waiting, offering up an alternative.

  As she smoothed the pages flat, Emily traced her fingers over another drawing she had been working on, of a girl now grown, cycling through the countryside, with all the possibility of life right in front of her. A girl she had created in this very room when she was no more than a child herself. When she
was battered, broken, and unable to talk, but who found another way to give voice to what was inside her soul. Pictures of a tiny heroine who had been stitched into the imaginations of millions of children all around the world, accompanied by the extraordinary words of her grandmother. A girl whose adventures only existed in the mind of someone who was gone. Really gone, leaving behind nothing more than some stupid clue.

  But if she didn’t go, if she didn’t follow the demands her grandmother had left, she could pretend it wasn’t so.

  Except for the man who’d delivered the letter. He would know. Before long he would figure it out. She had seen the way he looked at her. His mind processing the physical similarities between her and her grandmother. He had seen the framed cover of the first edition, a cover instantly recognizable the world over. It wouldn’t take long for all those dots to be connected.

  Once more her grandmother had preempted how Emily would react, knew she would try to hide, to protect herself from the reality of what had happened. She’d made sure there was a witness who would eventually force Emily’s hand.

  In those last days before she died, her grandmother had spoken of something left behind from long ago. A secret kept safe, that she wanted Emily to find. It was a game of sorts; a hide-and-seek puzzle so beloved of Catriona Robinson. Follow the clues to find the prize. A chocolate egg, or a tiny wooden door nailed to the side of a tree that she claimed belonged to a fairy. Except this time Emily wasn’t sure if she wanted to play.

  The magpie tapped his beak against the biscuit tin. He seemed to be waiting for Emily to make up her mind. Either that or he simply wanted another treat. A swift roll of eyes, a final slurp of caffeine, then back outside Emily went.

  Leg tossed over the saddle of her bike, bare feet on pedals, she rode through the village as the wind whispered secrets through her hair. Tiny speckles of pollen touched her skin as she sped along the road.